


Baby Doe

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bi!Jensen, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Pedophilia, Puberty, Self-Harm, Step-Sibling Incest, Top Jared Padalecki, Video Cameras, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: There’s an endless list to The Obsessions Of Jared P., and at least five of them center around and originated from his stepbrother.
Relationships: Jeffrey Dean Morgan/Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles/Original Female Character(s), Jensen Ackles/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58





	Baby Doe

“I used t-to be a, a cheerleader, y-y’know.”

Jensen drools more blood than spit.

“We did all k-kinds. Of…”

He blacks out again.

~

There’s a special glow to a day starting (and hopefully ending) in a gross amount of orgasms.

Jared P. has long decided there’s nothing shameful to it if it’s a) with only yourself and b) to the audio-visionary background of a bad quality movie.

By the time he’s stumbled into the kitchen to grab a string-cheese and his lunch bag, his recently acquired older brother is long ready, dolled-up and teeth-brushed and furiously tapping away on his ever-handy phone.

“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late.”

They don’t share a single gene, but Jared’s mom gets rawed by Jensen’s dad on the daily, now that they made it official not only before God but the Law. So, by law, they’re family.

The Ackles’ used to live in a trailer, but thanks to Jensen’s secret savings plus Jared’s mom’s Christian goodwill, out of the two of them, Jensen’s the one with a car to his name.

Jared would be mad if a) Jensen wasn’t obligated to drive him to and from school and to football practice and if b) it wasn’t Jensen Ross.

They don’t share a single gene, and it shows. Because Jensen A. is more handsome than anything you’d find in a catalogue or hung in a museum, all the while Jared P. for the life of him can’t figure out why anybody would ever spend money on a haircut, ever.

Jared’s knees are still pudding and his brain goes a little more dehydrated with the tight bounce of Jensen’s ass in his blue jeans right in front of him.

There’s an endless list to The Obsessions Of Jared P., and at least five of them center around and originated from his stepbrother.

Jared’s exchanged handies with some guy at science camp back in, like, seventh grade, and yet it hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be Normal. In fact, are you Not Normal if it’s only about one guy, ever? Is there a quota to that shit?

“There something on my face or something?” Jared’s brother wipes at the pink corner of his spotless mouth, and Jared blurts, “Just your face.”

~

He might be in love. There is no other explanation for how Jared can sense him, look up just to see him, magically, always.

Past-Jensen bark-laughs, “You asshole!” into Jared’s hair-hidden ears and Jared’s bitten-down fingers splay on one of his bullies’ math homework—while real-time Jensen laughs ten feet across the yard, in a flock of his friends.

Jensen has a natural charm that Jared can’t decipher. ‘Spellbound’ they call it, Jared considers.

March twenty-fourth, six PM starts over in his ears, again.

~

Jensen gains so many freckles each day, and Jared pours his allowance into another camera.

~

_“Put it in your mouth.”_

_“Maybe I don’t want to.”_

Jared silently co-mouths the words, _“Then maybe I should make myself clearer,”_ with sweat pouring down his neck and his fist pumping lotion-tight.

Jensen wouldn’t fuck him like that. Wouldn’t fuck him, period. Nobody’s eager to stick their dick into something they consider with a look reserved for mangy, starving dogs.

But Jared could do it. Jensen just doesn’t know it—doesn’t know _Jared_. Nobody does, not really. Jared is making very sure of it.

Jensen A. is so soft-centered, so touch-needy. Jared’s seen secret beer-fests and game nights going down in that room two doors down. There’s a special folder for them on his hard drive because they’re extra special, with too-a-many occasions of some jock-friend’s paw nestled girlfriend-casual on Jared’s stepbrother’s shoulder or inner thigh or belt loop—of Jensen accepting it, no big deal. Casual-drunk, red-tipped ears. Jared gets a certain thrill out of the hunger Jensen’s friends spill so relentlessly all over him, and that they’re all none the wiser about it.

It’s so fucking unnerving that nobody’s tried anything _real_ yet. Or maybe they don’t do that in Jensen’s room. Jensen’s out more often than not, but Jared has yet to find a way to sneak a camera with him one way or the other. It’s a work in progress.

Jared’s not-brother would melt, and smile, and not say a word.

Jensen’s got his girlfriend over right now, but they’re always fucking so quietly that Jared’d rather watch not-Jensen stuff instead of crawling against the wall for a weak female sigh.

~

“Can’t you put that down just for a second, honey?” Mom sighs, all pretend-nonchalant. “Or at least introduce her to us?”

Jensen scoffs a laugh, and Jensen’s dad scolds him with a slight slap to his shoulder.

Out of all of them, Jensen might know Jared best, even though they never talk. “It’s not a girl, mom.”

“Then who is it?”

“We’re doing a science project.”

“Oh,” mom coos, “about what?”

Jensen discreetly rolls his eyes in Jared’s peripheral. Jared shrugs, tapping without looking up from his phone once, “Just a school thing.”

A good day means she doesn’t ask him questions, so he doesn’t have to lie to her.

J replies that he’d like to kiss Jared’s feet all over before they jerk off together.

“For real though, please put that down now, champ. Your mother has been cooking this meal with lots of love, okay?”

Jared does as Jensen’s begetter tells him, because since he’s been wishing for a male authoritative figure for the better part of his juvenile life, he might as well show gratefulness now that he’s finally got one.

~

They call each other J, and the one of them being a pedophile finds that very cute.

It started out with a discussion board on camera tech. Middle school J thought that the other J sounded like they knew what they were talking about and DM’d them to squeeze some more knowledge out of them. He’s still amazed at how quickly it all turned into a conversation about pubes and feet and how expertly J plucked the replies and—finally—a phone number out of his horny, dumb-boy self.

Pedophile J is a great learning source for all kinds of subjects, and, for the price of a simple foot pic, provides quite generous praise and monetary compensation. So, Jared likes to keep him around.

Also, it’s nice to feel wanted, sometimes.

~

Jared’s own blood crusts against the hem of his boxers, of his socks. He sucks until the juice box sucks back at him, emaciated. He belches over the booming music in Jensen’s car, and Jensen praise-scolds, “Gross!” and Jared smiles.

~

Jared mouths, “ _I want to take you apart. Piece by piece_ ,” with his eyes half-lidded, fever-dizzy with lack of oxygen under the covers. His bed reeks of iron and himself, and when the screams start, he turns up the volume.

~

There’s a persistently harsh rap between his lungs and his ribs even though he says himself, “I have a knife, you know. So don’t try anything funny.”

J has a booming laugh that makes him older than he told Jared he was. Jared sulks and buckles up while he is being sweetly assured, “Nothing funny, alright.” The car is set into motion and Jared is being told, “You look beautiful today, you know that?”

Jared counters, “Thanks,” with his eyes pointed strictly out the window.

J turns on the radio once he’s slipped off Jared’s ice-cold shoulder one too many times.

They’ve barely pulled off the highway and into the forest track when the teenage J gathers his arms to cross under his no-tits to make a point. “You have it, right? I wanna see it, first.”

“Yeah,” smiles J. “Sure thing. ’Course.”

J pulls them into a well-shielded spot. A tree-made jail. Jared’s ankle bruises against the dig of his pocketknife and he feels the sweat gathering in his armpits.

J unbuckles his seatbelt and pushes his glasses up before he turns to reach for the backseat. To Jared’s utter relief, he produces the unpackaged camera. It’s so tiny J has to hold it between forefinger and thumb to present it properly. Jared squints, shoves his face closer for inspection and eventually admits, “Fine.”

The cables crinkle in their plastic bag. J wears a huge watch on his huge wrist. “Is it what you wanted?”

Jared says, “Yeah.”

“You can test it first if you want.”

“Nah,” blurts Jared, “I trust you.”

J beams with all his dark, rotten soul, or whatever he might have left of it. “I’m happy to hear that.”

Jared’s arms are still crossed. “So, you just wanna kiss?”

“Whatever’s comfortable with you,” says J. There’s the shadow of a wedding band on the hand he’s not carefully touching to Jared’s bare forearm.

Internally, Jared rolls his eyes. His mouth says, “On the lips, or?” and J laughs again.

Jared can see the tent in his pants all the way from here. “Smart. You done this before?”

A seldom will for honesty lets him tell J, “No,” and for good measure, “but I’m not _dumb_.”

“No, you’re not. Absolutely. Yeah, on the lips. Unless you feel like more, of course.” J pats his meaty thigh. “Come sit here, my smart boy.”

J’s family car isn’t tiny but the climb is a hassle nevertheless. Not without intention, Jared suspects, and settles into a wide-thighed straddle that’s maybe not what J had in mind at all, or maybe absolutely had in mind. It’s uncomfortable and Jared huffs, annoyed, while J sits back some more, smiling at something only he seems to know.

It’s a nice summer day.

Jared swears there’s a baby-tremble to those hands as they lay onto his waist.

“You’re really beautiful,” repeats J, dumbly, and Jared rolls his eyes for real now.

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

J tells him, “Kiss me,” and touches his cheek, gently, feather-y. Jared is pretty good at kissing.

J tastes like a Fresh Mint and coffee for breakfast. In that order. “Jay,” he hears, and sees, and feels, and squeezes his eyes shut when J begins to push their tongues around in his mouth.

He doesn’t like that part. He thinks of Jensen and how he’d kiss him; soft and wet and warm, and how his dick would be as hard as the one currently pushing up into his tailbone, just for him.

J’s one hand slips into Jared’s hair while the other settles over the span of his ass in his saggy jeans.

Jared’s holding onto the seat and politely tries to not drool all over the two of them.

J eventually redirects his kisses onto Jared’s cheek, his ear, behind his ear, down his neck. Jared cranes the latter towards the window, to cool, fresh air. His lashes flutter while J’s hands roam all over him, slip under his tee just for a second, like an accident.

“You wanna take this off?”

“No.” Jared’s mouth feels like hot glue.

“Okay,” pants J, and rocks Jared’s ass down on his cock, both hands on his hips, now. “That’s okay, angel. Come on, kiss me.”

~

The patch of skin on his thigh struggles hard to grow back. Jared picks at it in the shower after practice, and keeps picking at it in Jensen’s car.

“Ew,” he hears, accompanied by a stinging slap to his shoulder when he doesn’t interrupt his efforts. “Stop that! Freak.”

Jared slaps his stepbrother right back and gets an even harsher hit for it.

“I said STOP!”

“Yeah, here, I _did_ ,” barks Jared, holding both hands up in surrender, one of them smeared in red.

“You got blood on my shirt! Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Jared tells him, “Didn’t!” in reflex, without checking, while the dark spot on his own shorts continues to grow.

Jensen struggles to drive the car and, simultaneously, wipe and freak out over the smear on his right shoulder. “Oh,” he threatens, “you’re gonna pay for that, you little shit.”

The words alone are enough to send an unmistakable rush into Jared’s bloodstream. He grabs his bag from the footwell to keep it in his lap instead while barking about how he doesn’t have any money to replace Jensen’s ugly-ass Abercrombie shit.

“Then you’re gonna wash it,” Jensen roars, “until you get the stain out!”

Being tugged out of the car and into the house, Jared’s brain can’t decide whether the humiliation or the arousal caused by the humiliation should be the main focus right now. Jared stumbles along, submissive for all but his face, the stone-set of his bratty-kid expression. He’s so hard he can’t comprehend how Jensen hasn’t noticed yet, sensed it yet. The shirt must really be important to him. Might have been a gift or something.

“Here,” exclaims Jensen, once in the laundry room, door wide open, furiously stripping out of his shirt to toss it into Jared’s frozen face. “Get started, NOW!”

His backpack in one hand, Jensen’s skin-warm shirt in the other, there’s too many possibilities. Jensen is still puffing with rage, the last of his baby-fat forming the smallest mounds that peak with his 100% naked nipples. The softness of his belly, the bulge of his crossed, fit arms.

Their parents won’t be home for another hour.

Still oblivious, Jensen tells him to, “Get on with it, come on!” and Jared’s curiosity takes over, and he has to use both hands to get the shirt clean anyway.

Together with the backpack drops Jensen’s face, a few seconds late because they stand close and he doesn’t expect it.

Jared’s front is turned to the sink and there are shadows going on, but he can tell the second Jensen takes notice. There’s paleness and Jared takes it all in, observing to the point of rudeness, of provocation, and Jensen’s lips go tight instead of o-shaped, and he can’t move an inch.

Jared doesn’t provide an explanation just like Jensen doesn’t demand one. It takes a while to get the stain out with how Jared pretends not to know how to handle blood on cotton, but once it’s done, he hands the item over, and Jensen takes it, and leaves.

They won’t be exchanging a single word for six days.

~

Jared sits up in his bed, confusing his back, which hasn’t been this straight in months.

He gasps, “Holy shit,” out loud, turning the volume the fuck up.

~

It’s only dumb, raw audio, but this is the third round he’s jacking off to it and he’s still starstruck.

The visuals are non-existent, bad placement of the cam, but—sounds were picked up.

Jared can make out a blowjob ten miles down the wind.

Same goes for his stepbrother’s voice, however muffled it might be.

There are just enough sighs to know Jensen’s the lucky receiver. What gets Jared, every time, hard, is the baby-quarrel before Paul agrees to some rounds of COD.

_“You gonna do mine, now?”_

_“I told you I’m not into that.”_

_“Come on, just a little.”_

_“Cut it out.” Jensen sighs, speaks up more muffled, “No, I’m serious.”_

_“What about here?”_

_Jensen laughs, flattered, excited. “No, man, c’mon.”_

Jared has a vivid imagination. Everybody keeps saying that about him, broken-record style.

~

His stepbrother is the most precious thing Jared owns. J and him share many secrets, but Jensen Ross is his alone—the cut of his face, the colors of his skin and his eyes and the shades of his hair, and his sighs, and moans, and his laughter.

Besides, he’s surely way too old for J’s taste.

Neither side of their video chat shows a face, because neither of them is dumb. But Jared’s the only one hearing the other party talk over his headphones.

He can lock his door, but he feels safest not making a sound anyway.

 _“You’re so beautiful,”_ J’s favorite line, like Jared is something precious himself, worthy of sweet words and nice touches in contrast to the ideas J only ever suggests via text. What he’d do to Jared, and how much Jared would love it.

Jared has his eyes closed and his tee rucked up under his pits and does what he does best. Maybe Jensen is getting his dick wet in one of his friend’s cars right now. He’ll figure that out later, once he gets the cam back to check the footage.

For now, keeping J busy and happy is a less depressing way to pass his time than whacking off all by himself like he did the last few days.

~

Jensen’s dad is taking Jared’s mom out for a romantic dinner and even more romantic fellatio back at their now-shared house—it’s date night. Left-behind, their kids got to order pizza.

Present-Jensen eats absently, eyes and fingers on his phone, while past-Jensen is making sweet sounds in Jared’s headphones at the dinner table.

The audio-sex gets interlaced by a gentle, “Stop it,” a real, close sound.

Jared blurts, “Wuh?” with a full mouth.

“Stop staring,” clarifies his stepbrother, now frowning, not looking at him.

Jared keeps up with both the chewing and staring.

Eventually, Jensen finishes his share first. Jared listens for his route and he likes that it’s the shower that starts up. Jensen’s the type to only ever get his hands dirty under running water.

~

Jared’s not-brother is halfway through his pissed-off, “Get out,” before Jared’s even made it across the doorstep.

Jared’s got his hands in the pockets of his shorts and his heart somewhere around his uvula. He asks, “You ever fucked any of them yet?” and Jensen’s too annoyed by his presence to even listen, just snaps, “What?” with his hair still drippy and his phone perma-glued to his fingers.

Jared P. rephrases, thoughtfully, “Or _did_ you get fucked?” and Jensen A., on the other side of his room, seated on his girl-soaked bed, laces some confusion into his irritated frown.

“Fuck off, squirt.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“Or what?” prompts Jared, and he’s thought about it for-fucking-ever, if he should do it or not—but now he’s pulling his phone out and presses play, purely driven by spite.

_“Fuck. Yeah. Like that. – God… - Please—”_

“What the fuck?”

Jared activates replay, and Jensen’s voice moans all over again. Just like the real-time Jensen repeats, stupidly, “What the _fuck_ ,” this time rapidly paler around his mouth.

Jared has no need for words. He’s asked his question—and there’s so much going on with Jensen’s face right now, right here: it’s freezing over, his mouth agape with the horror that seems to settle for good.

Jensen’s girl-mouth pulls tight like it did back in the laundry room.

They stare each other down while the recording keeps playing, while Jensen’s TV blares recent sports news, forgotten.

Jensen’s got the look of something about to run for its life. “What do you want?”

“Oh,” says Jared, “do I want something?”

“How did you get these?”

“I think I asked you a question.”

Jensen comes into motion, begins to sit up. “This isn’t funny, man.”

“Did you?”

“Did I _what_?”

Jared repeats, “Fuck them,” and Jensen’s body stills once more.

Hesitation. Then, “You’re such a fucking freak, you know that?”

“It’s a simple question, yes or no, y’know.”

Jensen spits, “I’m not a faggot,” with all the internalized white trash homophobia he can muster. Jared eye-rolls.

“Sure you aren’t.”

Just the TV and the phone for a moment, before Jensen snaps, “Would you turn that off? For fuck’s sake.” He tosses his phone onto the covers to rub his hands across his face instead. Jared stops the audio.

More silence. Jared eventually inquires, “Does she have any clue at all, or?” effortlessly gaining that hint of panic in that, “What do you _want_?!”

Jensen is animal-smart. They do have something in common, after all.

~

They’re four years and a complete set of parents apart. And yet—Jensen, he feels like something Jared P.’s known and learned a lifetime ago. It’s hard to separate digital and actual reality, or Jared’s finally managed to break his brain for good.

Jensen’s moving in slow-motion (or is he?)—looks so careful, so doubting, all the while doing as he’s told. Throws a wary look before he steps all the way to his door (closed, now, with both of them on the same side of it for a first time since the Ackles’ moved in). Jared smells sweat and shower gel, and his eyes are fixed on the gentle, elegant spread of Jensen’s fingers that place themselves on the wooden surface, at Jensen’s chest-height.

Two steps and he’s right there—nose just at hairline level. Jensen’s nails are solid-looking. Pristine.

Jared is hard enough for his dick to be the first part of him touching Jensen. Who barely startles—his muscles just kind of…shift.

Jared whispers, “Don’t move,” into that Texas-burnt neck, into the static field between them currently building up to a storm.

He had told Jensen to turn off the TV, set his phone on airplane mode.

Jared closes in, fitting the length of his dick first and then the scrawny line of his torso right up against that increasingly heated body in front of him.

One finger to that bare neck, and Jared watches all that fuzz shudder straight in the breeze of his breath.

He can hear Jensen breathing. The steady flow of it—can feel it filling and escaping him, chest to back now. His eyes flutter when Jensen has to rearrange his face against the ungiving wood Jared is pressing him into.

“Don’t talk,” Jared adds, superfluously, but for good measure.

Dick and phone and folded-up knife are all digging properly into Jensen’s ass now, all items safely tucked away in Jared’s basketball shorts.

Jensen barely flinches upon getting a hand folded around his throat. A swallow—and a thin coat of sweat, and Jared swallows in blind sympathy as he reaches between them to dip his free hand into the back of Jensen’s shorts.

Jensen’s breath stutters, here, and Jared wedges his hand right between his ass cheeks, no preamble, no explanation. This is pure instinct and need and Jared’s getting more elated with every second that Jensen is completely and utterly surrendering to it.

Maybe he’s thought about Jared, too. Hoped and plotted, maybe all of this, maybe…

It’s either a) exactly that or b) Jensen’s just as crooked, as deprived and ill-moralled as Jared himself or c) scared into a somewhat vegetative state, and in all honesty: all three options feed that same black wolf inside of Jared.

He could pull both of their pants down right now and just go for it. And Jensen would _let him_.

Jared has to tug on his nuts at that thought to keep from creaming himself and, once it’s done, places his hand right back around that throat.

His eyes dip down to where his wrist is separating fabric from skin, and watches his own hand dry-rubbing that place that finally manages to get Jensen nervous—sweaty, down there, in mere instants—for real.

And still, no sign of protest.

Jared is overwhelmed. He wrestles a sweaty finger past the stubborn ring of Jensen’s asshole; adds another right away, down to the knuckle, until he finally feels a noise struggling its way up Jensen’s throat.

He commands, “Shut the fuck up,” and yet Jensen murmurs, “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“I _said_ —”

“Jesus—first drawer, all the way in the back, _lube_.” Jensen adds, quietly as much as pointedly, “Asshole,” once Jared obliges out of sole habit.

“You better shut up from now on,” he threatens, and nearly goes blind when he turns back around and Jensen’s dropped his pants, pushed his ass out.

He hears, “Just get it over with,” more annoyed wife than anything, and tosses the lube onto the carpet once he’s squeezed out a handful right into his palm. Thinks he hears a startled, “Hey,” but is right back where he needs to be, gets his cock out to spread the lube in one careless stroke, and proceeds to force himself in there with one hand on himself, the other on Jensen’s hip, up on the balls of his feet.

They are both surprised at how suddenly and violently Jared punches all the way home in just a single stroke.

Jensen growl-sobs a, “Fuck,” and Jared can’t even think in English anymore.

Jared clamps both of his hands into those hips and slams another surprised yelp out of Jensen before the guy sobers up and goes radio silent, successfully braces their combined weight against the door.

Something in Jared groans with bone-deep delight and he pulls Jensen close and rams into him hard enough to feel it in his own teeth. This wasn’t planned. Not like this.

Jared’s orgasm whips him instantly, shaking him like a dog. It wrings him dry to the last drop, caught in this new, flawless suction of actual hot-alive insides. It takes a moment for him to hear Jensen’s upset breath over the sharp ringing in his ears again.

He orders, “Don’t,” before Jensen’s even thought to speak, just a general order to everything and nothing in particular. His voice feels otherworldly.

J, you’ll never guess what happened.

~

Jensen rolls his bitch-eyes like the idea doesn’t instantly slap some color into his godly face. “I’m not your personal pocket pussy, y’know,” he offers, weakly, while setting his car into motion.

They both sense that Jensen might be incorrect.

The high afternoon sun sends dancing lights through the treetops all over the car, its wide-open back door, and, unbeknownst to him, Jared’s back and shoulders. He’d already gotten a blowjob earlier this morning—Jensen’s only objection had been resolved by a semi-thorough shower. It’s the second half of the day now, though, and Jared doesn’t see how he’d have to wait a full twenty-four hours for some actual action. After all, he’s the one calling the shots here.

Jensen’s on all fours and Jared can’t even see his head from where he’s towering behind him—mesmerized by the pink flashing around his cock on every downstroke, by the wet, starved sounds he fucks from it so easily. Jensen’s upper half is silent. There’s just both of their labored breathing, skin on skin, and birds.

~

Jared glares daggers at Rose across the dinner table. Safely nestled under Jensen’s arm, she tries hard to be very polite about it.

It’s Jared’s birthday.

Mom produced a yea high red velvet cake in celebration of the event, blood red and so sweet Jared’s teeth would slowly but surely step back from the situation if only they could. Jared’s on his third helping despite the increasing heartburn a freshly fifteen-year-old stomach shouldn’t even be able to experience. Alan side-eyes him while securing another piece for himself.

Jensen and Mom blabber about school and football and college. They are the kind of people who will keep a dead party going despite actual murder going on around them.

Jared hadn’t asked for this cute get-together, nor had he asked for the cake.

He hadn’t specifically asked for anything, but Jensen should have known (it’s the sensible thing to do and he’s a fucking sensible guy) that today is absolutely, definitely, not girlfriend time.

It’s like he’s asking for Jared to fuck things up.

For all Jared’s conspiracy-riddled mind knows, that might just be the actual plan.

Rose has been a part-time resident of their household for a little over half a year now. She’s mostly beelining for Jensen’s bedroom, strung from Jensen’s hand, a nice-girl smile on her heart-shaped face. Jared’s pretty sure her and him haven’t exchanged one whole sentence yet.

There’s jealousy, naturally. But also, a church-kid like her can never truly understand how lucky they are to be the accessory to Jensen A.

“Are you into anal?”

Her eyes pop and she only just-so refastens her grip on the plate she’s attempting to load the dishwasher with. “Ex _cuse_ me?” she says, high-pitched, and she’s leaning so low but Jared still can’t see a flash of tits with a neckline that high. _Ugh_.

“Yeah,” Jared says, shrugging and, to utter surprise to his facial muscles, with a smile. “I figured you were the type.”

~

The playground a few blocks down is just run-down and needle-riddled enough for it to be deserted on a sunny Thursday afternoon like this. Jared occupies one of the lopsided swings. The cake keeps coming back up his throat in sickly-sweet bursts.

_hey_

_hey angel. what’s up?_

_you know what day it is today?_

_no :-) you wanna tell me?_

Jared types ‘ _it’s my birthday_ ,’ because J’s the only friend he’s got. And that _sucks_ (more than he’d like to admit), but what can you do.

_oh wow! I didn’t know  
happy birthday!_

_yeah well  
it kinda sux so far but thanks_

_sorry to hear that_

_[shrugging emoji]_

Jared navigates out of the chat to tap on the conversation that’s so far filled with nothing but complains about Jared being late to being picked up.

Jared’s thumb hovers. Caught in indecisiveness, cluelessness—what would he even say? What does he even _want_?—he eventually folds it back into his palm in surrender.

The newest notification flashes with, _‘got any sweet gifts so far?’_ and Jared’s dumped heart thuds.

He decides that he’s angry about the world and that’s his birthday, so fuck it.

_can u get me like  
a bottle of something? vodka?_

It’s a tempting offer. It’ll be tricky to send J on his way before things get too inebriated, but maybe seeing Jared will be enough to lure him…

_so sorry sweetheart but I’m at work all night_

…or not. Shit.

_maybe another time_

_yeah ok  
thanks tho_

_anytime [heart emoji]_

Jared pockets his phone with a deep, deep grunt-sigh and swings for a while, despite the dangerous creaking of the entire structure. Once he’s had enough, he jumps off. The loose change in his pocket jingles upon the sandy impact.

Jared trails around the playground, frowning. He pulls his phone out to stare at Jensen’s name, puts it back. He scrapes the bottom of his pocket with his fingertips and, once again, the change announces itself. And something else…?

Jared pulls out a crumbled-to-shit but probably-still-valid ten-dollar bill.

His frown deepens in an effort to compress all the new thoughts springing alive right behind it.

He re-pockets the money and starts walking.

~

Mom’s gasp of utter shock isn’t new, but the huge smile coming after it is. “Baby!” she rejoices, leaving dinner prep behind and cradling Jared’s face in both of her lettuce-specked hands. “How _handsome_! What a _handsome_ boy I have!”

Alan, stirred by the sudden commotion, turns to look over the back of the sofa. “Oh, wow,” he exclaims, and Jared can’t stop the rush of red into everything above his collar bones.

“It’s a little too short,” regrets Jared.

“No, no; it’s perfect! Oh, can I take a picture right now, honey? For granny?”

Alan gets up, to the great dismay of Jensen and Rose, whose chances to escape are dwindling rapidly. “Yeah, let’s do one with all of us together! Family shot, come on, guys!”

Mom almost-cries, “Oh, she’ll be so happy,” already running for the camera.

Rose functions as the tripod for the big shot, and even though she does get a candid one with just Jensen and her, Jared is very fucking contented.

~

The polite knock on his door throws Jared off. Mom hasn’t done that in quite a while. Alan never even started it.

It’s just shy of eleven PM.

Jared, naked, disheveled, unlocks the door with the knob firm in his fist, the other hand pressing against the door, just in case.

“What?”

Jensen looks at him like he’s encountered The Thing From The Swamp.

Jared repeats, “What _is_ it?” like he’s unnerved and busy. Which both is true.

“She’s gone,” admits Jensen in a whisper. He’s never inquired Jared at this late an hour and he might have already decided to not ever do it again.

Jared’s eyes swim to the general direction of Jensen’s room, as if he could make out the movement of her spirit or whatever down the hall, tell if Jensen’s lying to him. “Yeah,” he says, none the wiser, “so?”

Jensen’s got both hands in his pockets and smells like what Jared assumes must be pussy. He smiles—pitifully, helplessly. “You gonna make me spell it out for you?”

Jared’s eyes narrow. The gap between door and doorframe tightens. “Not in here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so.”

Jensen scoffs with freshly budding annoyance.

“Your room.” Jared considers. “Gimme a minute.”

~

Jared tosses a cold, “On the bed, on your stomach,” before Jensen can even fully settle into that usual superior grin of his. Jared closes in on him in wide steps. “Did I stutter?”

Jensen rolls over where he’s already sitting enthroned, always so nonchalantly compliant. Nothing-but-boxers-clad Jared T. climbs him to straddle his ass and fish the knife from his waistband. Jensen’s got his eyes closed, his head on his crossed forearms. The dumb feline smile still lingering on his face tells Jared the knife clicking open did not register over the rustle of the covers.

“What’s it gonna be?”

Jared orders, “Shut up,” and Jensen’s grin deepens before he settles into his role. Jared takes in the view—Jensen’s broad, muscled back, the soft tee covering it all, the creases in his neck where his skin accommodates to the posture. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Jensen snickers. “I’m not.”

Jared lies down on top of him. His left arm supports all his weight while the right feels out the handle of the knife as if it wasn’t utterly intimate with it yet. His eyes are fixed on Jensen’s hairline.

Jensen’s warmth bleeds right through his single layer of clothes and into Jared’s scales. A foreign sensation. “Don’t move,” Jared instructs on a second or tenth thought, absorbed already, and regrips his knife.

All of his weight, and Jensen’s not even breathing tighter.

Jared ghosts the blade behind the available ear and slowly draws his line downwards—jugular, trapezius. The knife is steady in his fist, gripped with enough force that if he’d jam it in here, right about here, that’d be a punctured lung.

Jared can’t even blink.

Jensen’s amused in his oblivious, blind trust. “What’re you doin’?”

“I said to shut up.”

Jensen push-wriggles his ass out and up against him, and Jared surprises him right back by wrestling his arm around his throat and pressing _down_.

It’s all happening so fast and he can feel him opening his mouth, so he presses, “I said shut—up.”

Jensen’s eyes are wide open now. Even more so when he spots the knife in Jared’s fist.

They’re sharing eye contact. Jensen’s screaming silent questions at him and Jared answers them all. He’s got no clue if any of them register, but there’s a softness pulling at Jensen’s features once Jared finally grants him a peek at what he’s got in his right hand. Jared watches him.

Two options, both so simple.

Jensen looks back into Jared’s eyes, and Jared feels him forcing his body to relax.

Jensen’s breathing sure comes more uneasy now.

“Don’t. Move.”

Jared brings the tip of the blade to Jensen’s cheek. Jensen’s lashes tremble and he’s looking where his nose is pointing; nowhere.

There are a million possibilities, a million may-be realities right at the cusp of his fingertips.

Jared’s wrung-out libido crawls awake, strung along by the violent beat of his pulse.

The blade travels south again, and Jensen’s breathing strictly through his nose.

Hard to tell if he’s into it. If he’s just hanging on, that social cruelty of his where he’s teasing and tempting to see how far people will go—for him, with him. Jensen Ross simply takes those liberties.

Jared could stab him. Cut him, slice him. If he wanted. Right? He could. Yeah, naturally. Maybe Jensen is aware of that. Maybe he’s underestimating him. Both feel equally uncomfortable to Jared, whose knife has now reached the hem of his not-brother’s tee.

He slips it underneath.

Jensen’s eyes flutter in a mute reprimand—to watch out, better not nick him, probably.

Jared heightens the force in his arm until the fabric stretches hard against the blade and, finally, begins to tear.

The noise is loud in the otherwise quiet room. Deliberately, Jared draws it out.

He slices the back crosswise. The neckline resists but eventually severs under a couple of seesaw moves.

They both shiver with the audible pop of it.

Jared regrips the knife to brush the torn fabric from Jensen’s skin with the back of his hand. Stab-grip again (he’s starting to feel he likes that one, a lot) and he places it right over Jensen’s atlas. Whenever Jared checks himself in the mirror, twists his neck to see himself from behind, there’s a long series of protruding nobs where Jensen keeps a smooth, hollow valley instead.

Jensen’s got freckles here, too. A universe of them, splattered and sprinkled, and Jared makes out a wave of goosebumps when the metal tip begins to feather down this laid-out path.

~

“Thanks for not ratting me out,” hears Jared, fawn-stumbling back into his boxers. Jensen clarifies, “Earlier, I mean,” and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye while he checks his phone with the other.

Jared frowns, tired. “Uh. You’re welcome.”

“Try not to upset her again though, okay? Not cool.”

Jared grunts his dishonest approval and picks his knife from where he’d tossed it on the carpet earlier.

“It’s cute that you’re jealous an’ all, but—”

“I’m not!”

“Yeah sure, but try to not be an asshole, alright? Your mom really likes her. So.”

“Pretty sure _you’re_ supposed to like your girlfriend.”

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Padalecki. And try a shower for once.”

Jared flips him the bird and crawls back into his nest.

It dawns on him that these last fifteen minutes would’ve made such a _dope_ video.

~

If you’re looking for Jared P. at school, you’ll find him in one of these places:

  1. lurking in the perimeter of his golden boy stepbrother
  2. locked-in in one of the restroom stalls (better not look for him here)
  3. losing track of time in the tech lab.



They’re doing partner projects for the IT club, so naturally, Jared’s paired up with his headphones.

Mr. Sarkovski likes him because he reminds him of himself and Jared gets the work done in the end anyway, so he’s pretty much free to do what he wants.

The moment he gets interrupted by a tap on his shoulder, he’s remixing his brother waxing poetry with a variety of instrumental elements. He’s made better stuff so he’s only about eighty percent pissed off when he pulls his earphones off to bark, “What?”

To his utter surprise, Greta is standing behind him. Like, mere inches away.

He backs up into the table, just in case she gets an allergic reaction. All girls seem to get one, judging by the look on their faces once as much as his name is being dropped.

“I just, uh, wanted to, uh.” She fidgets—surprised herself, probably, that this is happening. “Your hair looks really cool.”

Jared bluffs, “Thanks,” and doesn’t trust the situation one bit.

“Did you get it cut or something?”

“Well, yeah.”

She stresses, now pinker on her cheeks, “It looks _really_ great.”

Jared narrows his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I was just, uh, wondering.” Greta is smart _and_ pretty, which throws _everyone_ off. Jared’s been spared from that mostly because he’s never even considered she’d as much as look into his general direction, let alone _talk_ to him. “Would you, like. Wanna join me? I mean, my friends and I, we were, kinda, planning to go to the mall today. If you’re free,” she adds, like anything else even is an option.

Jared’s brain hurts. From around his neck, the bass line wraps around Jensen’s distorted _I-I-I-I-I don’t know what-what-wh-wh-wh-what I want._

~

Greta Hausmann is holding his hand and he kinda feels like vomiting.

“This would look so cute on you!” chimes Tasha, and Greta squeals her, “Ohmygod, yes! Try it on, try it on, pleaseee?”

“I don’t know,” says Jared, but they’re pushing him along already, blindly ripping more clothes to layer onto his politely-tucked arm.

The clothes feel odd on his body—not broken-in, the pants way too tight (he wouldn’t even have to wear a _belt_ with them). The cheap industrial smell in the crammed fitting room makes him nauseous. Now that he’s out of them, he’s beginning to get a vague idea that the smell of _his_ clothes might actually be way, way worse than he thought.

The girls pee themselves a little upon him presenting himself. It’s kind of flattering if he ignores how whatever is going on isn’t happening to _Jared P._ , not really.

“That looks _so cool_ on you!”

“Can I take a picture? Pleaseee?”

They take a selfie with Greta’s phone. She shares it on her Instagram.

“You _have_ to buy that,” instructs Sarah and Jared’s sweating and miserable and politely tells her, “Eh, I don’t know.”

He ends up getting the sweater, but no force of this realm can convince him of those _pants_.

He wears it to the dinner table just because he’s too wrung-out to change. He feels like a puddle and spoons food into his mouth without much psychological involvement. He hasn’t socialized this much in the past two and a half years, combined.

“That’s such a nice sweatshirt, honey.”

Jared hears his not-brother reporting, “Little Jared and his girlfriends went to the mall today,” and Mom’s very enthusiastically ignoring the sheer ridicule.

“Is that so? _Girl_ friends?”

“A whole bunch o’ them.”

Mom nods. “I bet it’s the hair.”

“It really suits him,” agrees Alan, and Jensen scoffs, “Enough to bewitch _them_ , apparently.”

Jared eats his peas on accident and only notices once his plate is entirely empty.

~

“Oh, shit.” Jensen’s very suddenly very embarrassed about all of himself—which is nice because it makes him involuntarily clamp down on Jared’s dick.

There’s a palm in front of the lens now.

“How long’ve you been recording this? Shit; don’t.”

Jared keeps fucking him, smirking, unseen. It’s too easy to twist that hand, pin that arm away with a semi-firm grip on that wrist. “Why not? You have such a movie star face.” He keeps the camera pointed down where his dick is pumping in and out in long, deep strokes.

Jensen pants, “I don’t,” and it’s just whiney enough that it upped the overall video quality by at least another two stars.

Jared croons, “You’re so pretty,” mostly for the cam, for future-Jared. “ _Every_ where.”

Jensen makes deliberate, mean eye contact over his shoulder, and the recording will be a crisp token of that whirlwind of emotions; the wet layer on those angry, big eyes.

Which, then, pan directly to the viewfinder.

“Stop the sweet-talk and start _fucking_ me, bitch.”

~

_I’d love to see you again. any chance you’re free sometime soon?_

_?_

_I can see you’re reading these._

_did I do something wrong?_

_come on, angel. don’t be like that._

Jared taps out how school is really busy lately and tosses his phone back into his backpack right after.

In the golden afternoon, Jensen can’t take it anymore and confronts him at a red light. “Look, either you check those five thousand messages you’re getting right now, or you turn it on silent.”

Jared grins over his drive-through milkshake. “’S it bother you?”

“I can hear it vibrating _nonstop_ , man, it pisses me the fuck off.”

Jared’s grin deepens. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

“No,” points Jensen out, raised finger and all, while putting his foot on the gas on green. “I’m fucking sweating, the sound is fucking driving me in _sane_ , Padalecki!”

“So phone addiction _is_ real, huh.”

“Well, may _be_ ,” snaps Jared’s not-brother, “but fucking turn it _off_ , now, or you’re walking!”

Jared complies, smiling the satisfied smile of someone who’s right and the other party can’t deny it.

“Who’d even be texting _you_?” grumbles Jensen, almost home. “Better not get any of them pregnant, you hear me?”

~

_things are busy, sorry_

_I thought we were friends though :-(  
why are you leaving me hanging, bud?_

_yeah  
I’m sorry  
don’t text me so often at once  
my family’s gonna notice_

_I don’t have to if you check back with me, do I?  
so, now that I have your attention—how about a late belated birthday party? you and me?  
I got the upcoming weekend off work  
I remember you wanting something ;-)_

“Honey, dinner!”

“In a second!”

_I don’t think that’s a good idea_

_why not?_

_gotta go, ttys_

_video chat tonight?_

“Ja-red!”

“Coming!”

Jared blocks J’s number.

He deletes the chat and throws the phone onto his homework-laden desk before he joins his family downstairs.

~

Despite it all, he preferred it just being Mom and him. Despite the loneliness, the looking after her, being ‘her little man’. Nobody would expect anything of him with him having it so rough at home right now, no wonder he’s ‘like that’.

Jensen makes him feel lacking things he never knew he should and could want.

It was easier being abandoned by a dad than trying to impress a newly added one.

Jared carves useless circles into his desk, his thigh, his desk.

~

Jared’s barely finished pumping him full that Jensen’s already on his phone again. Rolled to the side, cold shoulder, far-away.

Jared channels his heavy breath through his nose, one hand on the damp sheets Jensen’s skin had made out with mere moments ago.

~

It’s more than a fleeting suspicion that Alan only comes to his games to make Mom happy. That he only cheers him on to make them look like the perfect family, to pretend he doesn’t mind that no particle of Jared Tristan was created by him.

Jared’s got his and his bio-dad’s name on the back of his jersey, a bloody knee and a yellow card. His team wins—not solely due to the three goals he scored.

They high-five each other, bear-hug each other, Jared mangled in between here or there, but his eyes stick to the bleachers, to Alan and Mom cheering, happy, waving. He half-waves back.

Undoubtedly, the best thing about sports is the post-game pizza.

They’re hosting quite the get-together with the other team being semi-famous and from a few towns over. A huge tent because they said it’d rain, maybe. Jared honestly just wants some soda and grub.

Two slices in, he notices how Mom and Alan got chatted up by another pair of parents, so he goes for a third, and a fourth. Coach side-eyes him dirty when he reaches for another, so he retracts himself from the tables and mopes around the place.

Siblings, parents, friends. Everyone is involved with each other, excited and happy. Jared’s got his hands gripped behind his back to stave himself off the urge to pick at the grass embedding itself in his knee.

A group of girls moves, nearly running him over, and while he bellows, “Hey!” they look him down with utmost disgust and pity before breaking into collective laughter. Jared’s stomach sags just a little deeper.

He whips his head around—where even are his parents at this point—just to meet eyes with a cop right across the tent.

He’s tall, overweight, in full uniform and all. He’s got a little girl dangling from the hand not balancing a napkin with a pizza slice on it, and he’s looking straight at Jared. Jared recognizes him.

Jared feels the color draining from his face and turns on his heel.

Panic rams into him without a preamble, without him being capable of much more thought than ‘get the fuck out of here, NOW’. He wants to call for, “Mom?” but he can’t, she wouldn’t hear him anyway.

Jared bolts outside.

~

“Where—Jared!”

“Jared, what happened? What are you doing out here?”

“I got bored,” he says, getting up from where he’s been cowering on the gravel by their car for a while now. “You guys were taking forever.”

Mom pulls him into a tight, clingy hug. She reprimands, “Don’t do that again,” with as much fear as a mother can possibly put into what’s supposed to be a threat.

Jared gingerly puts his arms around her and tells her, “Okay.”

~

His mind races at a million miles per hour.

They’ve got leverage on _each_ _other_ , J and him—right?

He’s spinning in circles, rolled up under his sheets, unable to move.

~

Nothing can happen. It’s all gonna work out.

“You okay?”

Jared makes a dumb sound, turns his attention to his not-brother.

Jensen only ever gives him the time of day during red lights. During no-Rose times, in stranded-at-home nights.

“You look constipated,” mocks Jensen, illogically beautiful in the golden early morning light. The scent of fresh laundry and aftershave envelops him and he’s not even looking at Jared while he talks.

Jared’s mind blanks out in that surprise of a moment of peace.

“I. Yeah,” he blurts, eventually. “I’m good.”

Jensen scoffs, his dumb upper lip lifting for a glimpse of pearly whites, and the lights turn green. “Freak.”

~

Why would anything happen? Nothing’s gonna happen.

“Fuck—”

“Shut up.”

And Jensen does, beautifully.

Sweat pools in the dip of his lower back, and his too-open legs quiver in the awkward angle Jared’s tied them to his hands.

He stays perfectly quiet even through Jared grinding the heel of his thumb inside; finally, barely. His breath intensifies when Jared begins to fuck him properly, every stroke sending his arm deliberately deeper.

“I-I,” he warns, uselessly, and Jared can _feel_ him coming. Not that it’d stop him, but.

Jensen’s groaning into the mattress. Jared’s dedicated to get to his elbow but Jensen chickens out several inches prior—thrashing, begging, all gasped-up and wet.

“Nonononono, wait, stop, god stop, _wait_ —”

‘I could make you take it,’ is a clear, hypnotizing thought. “Just shut up and let me,” so easy to say, “You fucking _love_ this.”

Jared forms a fist to punch into him right, lays all his weight into his free forearm to pin the bundle of warmth and salt and slick into something useable. Jensen tenses before he melts, really turning red neck-upwards now, choking himself to not give them away to oblivious downstairs parents.

Jared gets what Jared wants.

“Don’t do that again,” complains Jensen the next morning in the car, apparently conscious enough again to form words. “Fucking ropes gave me fucking rug burns. How am I supposed to explain those to her, huh?”

~

The world is a fucking rotten place and Jared thinks he can make peace with that.

Mom’s found someone to fuck again so she doesn’t need a child anymore to pamper. Alan is a mere accessory and doesn’t know him, won’t ever know him. Which might be for the better.

That’s all right. Those things just happen when you get older, don’t they? Meaningless, dumb-child beliefs getting replaced.

“Hey, little brother.”

Jared tenses as Jensen drapes around him, smelling of beer and communal AXE body spray. “Hey, guys, you met my little brother yet? Jared, the guys.”

Hey’s and hi’s. Jared mutters, “Hi,” and ducks away under Jensen’s dampened armpit to fridge-fish for the milk he needs for his cereal.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Got your panties in a twist?”

“Get lost.”

“Aw, did the Jonas Brothers split up again?” Jensen looks like anyone’s wet dream, all flushed and soft from booze—judging by the barely-there swell of his belly, on an empty stomach. He props himself against the fridge like any cheap trick, and Jared throws him a warning glare.

Jared slams the fridge door, hard. “How about you go ass-fuck your dumb little girlfriend, Ackles?” gets him a loud wave of cheers and laughter from the couch, the loudness of it overpowering even the game blaring at full volume (where even _are_ their parents?) and startling him. He stomps off, leaving the cattle behind.

~

He hasn’t heard from J in what feels like forever. Still, every passing cop car has him turning away, hiding as much of himself as possible. While he’s aware that that’s pretty much useless, he still can’t stop.

“Incest is only illegal if it’s with a girl,” supplies Ackles, mindlessly smacking on a piece of gum to cover the rank of teenage dick. “And only if you knock’er up.”

Jared frowns, his bag hugged to his middle. “That sounds wrong.”

“Nu-uh. Hundred percent.”

“Bullshit.”

“ _You’re_ bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

Jensen’s laughter always sounds so sincere and cruel at the same time.

~

“We should hang out again sometime,” muses Greta, and Jared nods along, her arm hooked into his.

“Sure,” he says with his thoughts somewhere between the knife tucked away in the back of his pants and his stepbrother’s taint.

They arrive in front of the classroom and the quick kiss to his cheek throws Jared P. the fuck off.

Greta vanishes with a grin, quick as a cat, and he can stomp off in (confused) peace.

Girls are fucking weird, he decides. He wipes the trace of her lip balm away with his sleeve.

Remixes of moans, too much bass. There’s always a movie rolling behind Jared’s eyes. He loops the clip of Jensen just driving, not noticing him or the camera, to something infinite. It’s so easy and effortlessly made, and he already knows he’ll cringe about it in a week. He deletes it after a couple of minutes of it looping, and looping, and looping.

“You’re late.” Jared isn’t. “Let’s go.”

They slip into the car. The weather is mild with some clouds mingling over perfect blue. Jensen is wearing one of his staple white tees, their school’s varsity jacket.

“We can grab something to eat if you want. I’m free.”

Jared raises an eyebrow. “No Rose?”

Jensen’s features warp into disapproval. “Shark week.”

“Hah,” says Jared. “Ew.”

“Yeah, man.”

Jared navigates them to the old-school ice cream place on the edge of town. They have great milkshakes and a strip of forest not too far away he’s scouted out a while back. Jensen gets vanilla, Jared picks strawberry.

Out in the parking lot, Jensen’s walking up front, keys fished from his pocket already, his phone safe in the back of his jeans. “This is pretty good,” he admits, half a glance over his shoulder, and Jared beams with the courtesy.

“Yeah,” says Jared, painfully aware of the cold bite of the cup in his palm and the knife slowly but surely sliding from waistband into buttcrack. “Right? They’re really—”

Jensen nearly bumps into the car coming to a halt right in front of him, but he can’t avoid spilling a healthy amount of milkshake all over himself. “Hey!” he exclaims while Jared surges forward first, and freezes next. “Asshole, what—”

A gun points at them, casually, from the rolled-down window, and J says, “Get in the car.”

Time turns funny.

Less than seconds pass between the words, the sentences, every little move, but Jared loses _years_.

“You fuss, this’ll turn into an unfortunate accident. _Move_.”

“What?”

Jared can’t feel a thing except the lack of sensation. “Leave him out of this.”

“ _What_?”

“Get,” J undoes the safety, “in the car. Both of you.”

Jared shoves Jensen to the back-seat window, and Jensen looks at him across his shoulder, again. The look of utter betrayal registers with a distant stab, but Jared can’t think that far.

He rounds the car while Jensen gets in the back. Jared himself settles into the passenger seat.

“Seatbelts,” announces J with the muzzle pointed at Jensen and his eyes locked with Jared’s.

The boys buckle up and the car sets into motion.

They drive.

Jared puts all his remaining brain power into remembering the way, unsure if he can, but figuring he has to.

“No funny business back there,” cuts through the silence eventually and Jared hears his stepbrother’s clothes shifting, thinks he sees him raising his arms in defeat in the rearview.

Jared hears a pale, “Sorry,” and on they go.

There’s a digital clock in the stereo but Jared forgot at what time they got in. Has it been minutes? Hours?

“Please,” he hears someone say, and J’s eyes flick to him, so maybe he’s the one speaking. “Let him go. You don’t, you… You don’t have to do this.”

“Can’t do, Jay. You know I can’t.”

“Just take me,” not-Jared says, “let him go. He won’t tell anybody.”

“Yeah, I swear, man, _please_.”

“Not an option.”

Jared shimmies oh-so slightly to lodge the knife lower in its hideout. “You only want me. Don’t you? I’ll do whatever you want if you let him go. I swear, J.”

J isn’t in his uniform but in a slightly more run-down version of the outfit he wore back when they had met for the camera. The frame of his thickly rimmed glasses pushes dents into the fat in his cheeks. He’s shaved clean.

He states, “That’s very sweet an’ all. But it’s kinda personal.”

J pulls them off-road for a while, until a semi-abandoned house comes into view, safely set within the forest. He parks the car here and Jared can’t fathom how he’s supposed to tell his body to move.

J takes care of that. “Move.”

They leave the milkshakes behind.

They form a line—Jared first, then Jensen and J last, gun raised and pointed. He parades them around the house to the backyard. Jared is told to open the hatch to the basement. He does.

They descend. J flicks on the only light before he pulls the hatch closed and locks it. Jared follows the key into J’s pocket, strictly in his peripheral with J’s eyes boring through him, personally.

“Pretty boy, sit on the chair, hands behind your back. Jared, on the mattress.”

Jensen tries again. “Please—”

“I won’t ask twice.”

As they take their positions, Jensen and Jared lock eyes for a fleeting moment. Horror and betrayal and questions and nothing else, and God, if Jared could say anything, he’d say he’s so fucking sorry.

J zip ties Jensen to the chair; he’s got to put down his gun for that. Jared’s mind races tunnel-vision style, only to come to the conclusion that by the time he’d reach anything, J’s finger will be back on the trigger.

The air down here in the cellar is stale and cool, laced with mold and dirt and rotting wood. The lone naked lightbulb dangles above their heads, brand-new. The bare concrete floor seems to have been swept not long ago.

J’s back on his feet and has his gun ready as he walks the few (endless) steps over to Jared cowering next to (not on) the mattress. “Hand over the knife, buddy.”

“What?”

“Your knife,” repeats J, now holding out his free hand. “You got one in your shoe the last time, sure as hell got it somewhere now. Hand it over.”

Jared’s face is wax. “I don’t have it. Today.”

J cocks his head with a fatherly, soft sigh. “Get up so I can pat you down.”

Despite his knees having dissolved God knows when, Jared makes it to a stand, only to be pulled into a semi-hug. He turns his face away from J’s suffocating chest, so fucking used to this procedure due to school that he raises his arms away from his torso in Pavlovian reflex.

J’s hands—one armed, one fully capable—pat him from neck to toe.

“Take off your shoes.”

Jared does that.

J tosses them across the room. “Belt.”

Jared does that, hands it over and grabs at his instantly sliding-off jeans.

J scoffs at that. “Lay on your back, spread eagle.”

Jared complies. Sweat glues his tee to his back, his hair to the nape of his neck. His damp socked feet attract the cold. The sheets on the mattress smell of laundry detergent. Jared looks up at the ceiling while J climbs atop of him, turns his head when staring straight up would mean staring at J’s face.

One pair of handcuffs per wrist; the keys slide into the same pocket the key for the hatch went. J snaps the free ends of the cuffs into chains that Jared soon realizes are bolted to the floor.

J runs his fingers down the soft insides of Jared’s arms, all the way down to the sleeves of his tee. Whole palms then, across his chest. J’s straddling him but keeps his impressive weight to himself.

J’s hands are too-warm on Jared’s too-thin rib cage. Jared hears a gentle, “Are you scared?”

Jared’s heart is hammering up into his throat, challenging his breastbone. He glares with thin lips, silent.

“It’s gonna be okay,” says J. “I promise, alright?”

J’s left paw cups his cheek for a moment before J lifts himself off of him.

“So.”

J is massive when standing up straight, and it’s not just the perspective of Jared lying on the floor—a fucking cop, fuck, trained and so fucking calm though all of this so far.

J trots to the other side of the room where there’s a shelf filled with stocks of what looks like canned food. He puts his gun in an empty spot, turns around and crosses his arms.

“I’ve always hated people like you, Ackles.”

Jared watches Jensen staying put—frozen, pale. His red letterman jacket looks so out of place down here, a beacon.

“Thinking you’re better than the rest of us. That you can do whatever you want. That you _get_ whatever you want.”

J’s boots are nearly silent on the floor.

“I’ve been watching you,” says J, now uncrossing his arms. “To see if you’re any different. Since Jay here’s so fond of you. But frankly, I don’t get it.”

J reaches out to cup his hand under Jensen’s chin, pinch at his jaw—Jensen remains perfectly tame, despite the visibly growing shivers in his knees.

J squints as he turns Jensen’s face from side to side. “A pretty face, I’ll give you that.” J rubs his thumb across Jensen’s lower lip. “You sucked his dick with that mouth?”

Neither of them manages a reply. Jared’s brain can’t remember how much he’s ever told J about Jensen. That he exists, maybe. That he’s kinda hot, maybe—back when Jared didn’t know J was more than a fellow tech freak.

Jensen tries to pull his head back when J takes two fingers to shove past his teeth.

“You can’t even lie,” observes J. He screws his fingers. “Yeah, I bet this mouth sucks some pretty mean dick. You gonna let me have a go at it?”

Jensen looks like he’s about to cry. He splutters, uselessly, once J’s removed his fingers, “I, if—”

J grits, “I don’t want your fucking mouth,” and punches him straight in the face.

The impact rattles all of Jensen, and Jared hears the creak of the chair, the sharp, pained inhale.

J says, “Look at me,” and Jensen’s trying through the setting-in shaking, and J hits him again.

And again.

Jared yells, “Stop!” but it doesn’t; he jolts upright while the ugly smack of skin on skin continues, a sickening rhythm to it with Jensen’s gurgled noises strewn in between.

The chains are about three feet long.

“J, stop, PLEASE!”

And J does, looks over and down at him, and his fist is bloody and Jensen’s drooping to the side, away, and there’s splatters on his jeans that Jared can see all the way from over here.

One corner of J’s mouth flirts upwards, lifting his lip away to show a glimpse of his teeth as he winks at Jared, before he takes another swing.

“NO!”

Jared thinks he’s screaming. His throat hurts with it—he can barely sit up but fights to do it, scrambling his feet, disarranging the makeshift bed.

He can’t do a thing. “NO, please, PLEASE, J, please stop, please, PLEASE!”

Jared is ugly-sobbing by the time J calms down to shake the blood and excess skin off his hand. His bones shine through his knuckles, blinding white, and Jared keeps pleading through the wave of sickness grabbing him, hard, when Jensen isn’t making a single sound.

Jared screams for his stepbrother.

J gently pats what’s left of Jensen’s left cheek, runs his fingers through the now-sticky strands of blond. “Hey, pretty boy. Hey. Now c’mon.”

Jared relief-vomits on the floor when Jensen’s sucking in air, when his entire body flutters back alive.

“’M, n-not…”

“Huh?”

“’M n-not…”

J hollers, “You’re not? Not what? I can’t hear you,” and leans in close, both hands on the back of the chair Jensen’s dangling off of.

“N-not a. Jock.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I used t-to be a, a cheerleader, y-y’know.”

Jensen drools more blood than spit.

“We did all k-kinds. Of…”

He blacks out again.

J throws Jared an impressed look. He then shrugs his shoulders and keeps smashing Jensen’s head in with his bare fist.

Jared faints at some point. He thinks he comes to, and for a split second, everything was just a bad, bad dream.

But then he smells iron, and he hears running water. He picks his head up to the source and figures out movement—J is washing his hands in the nearby sink.

Jared’s eyes flash to where he remembers the chair, and it’s still there, and Jensen’s still tied to it.

Jensen isn’t moving. Or breathing.

“Son of a bitch,” says someone, something. A hiss. “Wrecked my fucking hand, that bastard.”

Jared can feel the hot stream of tears down his face, into his ears. He can’t move, can’t look away from Jensen. He can’t be dead. He can’t.

“Please.”

He hears J turning towards him.

“Please, p-please take him, t-take him to—the hospital. Please.” Jared’s mouth feels foreign, sour, degenerated. “He can’t die. He can’t die, p-please. Do something, _please_.”

J hums a soothing, “Sweetheart,” and Jared’s body shakes with a new burst of sobs.

Jared has officially lost control.

“Focus on me. Here, look at me. That’s a boy. Hey,” J’s hovering over him now, on his knees, petting through Jared’s hair, along his face. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay, remember? It’s all gonna be fine.”

J kisses his forehead, his cheek, his temple. He wipes at Jared’s nose and mouth before he kisses him on the lips. Jared jerks his head away, still crying. J uses his good hand to hold Jared’s face in place, and Jared’s chains knock over the empty bucket sitting nearby the mattress.

Jared kicks and flails but it doesn’t take much out of J to pin him with elbows and knees and his about three hundred pounds.

Jared wails in utter frustration.

“The more you fight, the more freedom you get taken away. I can shorten these,” J yanks on Jared’s arms to jostle the chains, “and I have some for your feet as well, just in case. But I figured you wanted to be able to stretch them every now and then, so. Choice is yours.”

Jared dry-sobs, gets his head petted like this is a parody, a joke. He realizes he’s hyperventilating and begins to feel dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the stench of iron and raw meat plastering itself to his palette.

“You let me wait for so long.”

J jerks Jared’s tee up to under his chin to expose his heaving stomach, his protruding ribs. He grabs him by the hips and kisses a path from breastbone to down south, the barest hint of stubble like sandpaper on Jared’s skin; it’s all heated and too-fast, and Jared’s body now realizes how exhausted it is.

J continues, “But I forgive you,” all butter-soft and loving like back in the car; he unzips Jared’s jeans and gets a hold of both boxers and pants to pull them down. “After all, finally, it’s just me and you.”

Jared’s thoughts are dwindling into nothing, shutting down. It’s too much, all of it.

A shrill thought pierces through the setting mist and his heart surges, and his drained muscles scream and creak and snap with how fast he’s moving his arm underneath himself—

and how hard his fingers wrap around the knife that snaps open on his command, and the scream roaring from deep within his body as he rams the blade into J’s neck, his other hand taking leverage on J’s shocked chest to wrench through muscle and skin and sinews.

J’s neck sprays blood like a hose and Jared is still screaming, and J is grabbing at his hands and arms and he’s trying to strangle him, but nothing can stop Jared now. J’s eyes bulge as he tries to breathe through a severed windpipe but they’re on Jared, Jared alone, and Jared’s hand is still see-sawing through whatever it can get when J’s already collapsed on him, convulsing with his body crying for help, anything, anyone.

Jared barely manages to roll the body off of himself. He’s almost lowered himself back down to catch his fucking breath (feels like he’s held it for hours) when he remembers Jensen, who’s still not moved, who hasn’t made a sound in God knows how long now, and Jared hurries to retrieve every key he can find from J’s pants.

The hand he wipes through his stinging eyes comes away soaked in blood. He sniffs, coughs. It takes a few tries to unlock the handcuffs and a hot minute to get to his feet—he decides to leave the jeans behind, no time to go collect his belt from the other side of the room, and just pulls his boxers back up over his ass.

He dislodges his knife from J’s throat and cuts through the zip ties digging themselves into Jensen’s tender wrists—his hands are in a deep shade of purple. The binds had been the only thing keeping him upright in the chair, so Jared hardly manages to grab him before he collapses to the floor face-first.

“Jensen. Jensen, hey. Hey.”

Jared shaking him is the only motion Jensen’s body accomplishes. Something drops to the floor with a wet squish and Jared can’t comprehend how he isn’t dry-heaving.

Where there once was Jensen’s face now is an anonymous, fleshy pulp.

Jared tells him, “You gotta hold on. Hold on, imma get us out of here. Hold on, okay? Promise?”

To the best of his ability, he hoists Jensen’s body up, one arm pulled over his shoulder, and begins to drag the both of them towards the hatch.

The room is quiet but for Jared’s labored breathing, the grind of Jensen’s spotless-but-for-the-blood sneakers across the concrete.

“I’ll be right back,” pants Jared as he props Jensen up by the staircase. “Gotta get the lock open and then we’re out of here. An’ we’ll get you help,” he adds, uselessly, has to, and forces his hands to stop shaking just enough to unlock the goddamn hatch.

Pushing the wooden doors open is like a first real breath in what feels like days. Months.

The sun is still up, no sign of settling dusk.

Jared re-shoulders his stepbrother. “Okay, just a little further now.”

Wind blows in through the open hatch and cools the gallons of sweat running down Jared’s face, his neck, his bare arms.

“You can do this,” he mutters. One foot in front of the other. “You can do this. You can. We’ll get you help. It’s gonna be okay. Just a little further now.”

Jared thinks he feels Jensen stirring, if only just a little, but he can’t pay attention to that; almost there.

Jared’s socked foot reaches soft, overgrown grass.

Jared pants, “I’ve got you. Almost there. I’ve got you.”

Jensen doesn’t respond.


End file.
